


Mirror Mirror

by Goodluckdetective (scorpiontales)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Gen, Homophobia, POV Second Person, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:18:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4849124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiontales/pseuds/Goodluckdetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donut’s always wondered why the mirrors at Red Base are always broken, but he never suspected this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Based off this great fanart by Grimmonsed: http://grimmonsed.tumblr.com/post/129543410365/i-feel-like-we-dont-talk-enough-about-that-bit-in

    You figure out why the mirrors are always broken one year into your tour.

    You don’t mean to figure it out. In fact, the mirror situation, while a mystery, has never bothered you much; you have a personal one in your room, leaving the grime covered bathroom ones moot. After the sticky grenade, after the left side of your face was scarred and puckered, you had an even better reason not to care. As far as your list of “Donut’s concerns” goes, the broken mirror problem lands right around number 50, shortly before who’s stealing your shampoo and after where your socks have vanished off to.

    So no, you don’t care about the broken mirrors despite your love of a good mystery. Which is why it’s so surprising when you’re the one to figure out the cause.

    It an accident that you observe. Honestly. Your lack of personal boundaries does have its limits. It’s after your wine and cheese hour that you head off to the showers, the rest of the base cleared out for one of Sarge’s random chores. If you expect to see anyone in the bathroom, it’s Grif, ignoring the world like a champion. Not Simmons, tall, lean, and so, so angry.

    That’s what makes you pause in the doorway. Because in your one year on tour, you’ve seen Simmons annoyed. You’ve seen him irritated. You’ve seen him angry. But you have never seen him furious.

    From your angle in the doorway, you can see his face in the mirror. His chin is tilted up, his eyes narrowed, and the one hand he’s not using  to hold up his towel is curled into a fist. The tension in his shoulders is almost painful to look at. You start to open your mouth, to offer a back rub because that shit can’t be healthy, when Simmons speaks.

    “I’m gay.”

    If you were holding anything, you think, it would now be on the floor.

    For a second, you think he’s confessing this to you. That he saw you in the mirror prying and decided to let loose for one second. You’re not quite sure why he’s so serious about it, out of all the Reds he could tell you’re probably the safest bet. But then you see the lost look in his eyes and it hits you.

    Simmons is not talking to you. He’s not talking to himself either. He’s talking to a memory. Preparing for a possible future. Maybe a little of both.

    Your mind flashes back to a small barn house in Iowa. You can remember hours in front of a mirror doing the same, practicing. Your Mom’s words of support and hugs still make you smile to this day. Your jaw still aches from where Billy hit you the same day.

Simmons raises his first. It contacts with the center of the mirror. And you realize that Simmons likely had more of the latter reactions. If he had any of the former at all.

“Christ,” Simmons says, retracting his hand from the now shattered mirror.  Blood drips from his palm into the sink. You can see it smeared in the cracks on the mirror. “Oh who am I kidding-” He puts his bloody hand up to his mouth. Covers a sob.

You take a step away from the bathroom. It is only know you realize how much you’d been intruding. You consider walking in, offering comfort, then cross it off. Simmons is not you. You are not Simmons. He needs comfort of a different kind.

It’s easy to break into the first aid kit. Easier to find a roll of gauze and antiseptic wipes. Sneaking into Simmons room and placing them on his bed is child’s play. Scrawling the note takes seconds. By the time Simmons passes you in the hallway, composed, his bloody hand hidden under his towel, your work is done.

You hope he can read your handwriting. It’s always been a scrawl. But when Simmons shows up in your doorway, hand now bandaged, eyes wide, note clenched in his palm, you know you got your message through.

This time, you hug him. The scrap of paper falls to the floor.

_“I know.”_


End file.
